by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I’ve come again
to watch your woods,
snow up to my thighs,
winds flying
across the tops of trees—
like when I was little.
On windy days
I would run
into the woods
and listen to the wind
roaring across the tops
of trees,
but stillness would
be beneath.
I think of trees
as family,
kin,
those that are
always there,
steel cores,
centurions
that guard us
from all the clamor
at the top,
the quiet and stillness
beneath,
close family.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
All my ancestors
live inside of me.
One Grandfather cut down
the biggest tree in the county.
My Mother said,
“Why didn’t he leave
the biggest tree
to grow even bigger?”
Another Grandfather
referred to his trees
as “He and She.”
“Save those orange seeds;
they will grow into trees.”
One Grandmother said,
“What will they serve
for the wedding feast?
Rabbit?”
My room is filled
to the rafters
with their voices.
Every once in awhile
some ancestor
will sneak up behind me
and rudely nudge me
in the back
when I’m least
expecting it.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Fresh snow
with the same fox trail
ahead of us
each morning.
The cold at times
becomes unmovable,
but we must
meet her at her throat;
we must reach down
inside ourselves
for strength,
or
we will be swallowed up
like the coyote
that morning
who stood his ground,
unmovable.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
a pastel by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Filed under Art, Art by Ethel Mortenson Davis, Ethel Mortenson Davis
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
We have all been slaves
and rich men.
We have run like the salmon
have run
with our freedom gone.
Be it red man, black man,
yellow or white,
we have all
been prisoners on this earth.
We have all
been free men.
And now the brightest star
in the east
says,
“Get on your pony
for the one last ride
before the dark.”
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
This morning,
when we saw a cedar forest
whose trees seemed
as if they were from another world,
we saw a child’s tale—
witches and goblins hiding
behind every tree trunk
on the soft fallen cedar floors.
Since we have moved
to this land of lakes and forests,
my body has moved,
but not my spirit.
It is still circling,
soaring in the sky,
keeping from lighting,
not sure whether
it will land
like
the Sandhill Crane
this morning
circling the marsh,
not lighting,
appearing to be lost.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
by Ethel Mortenson Davis
I can’t remember when
the old man’s house became unliving,
when the closed-off rooms became closed-off
from life and put on the shelf,
unusable like the clock in the attic,
the meaning all but gone.
Like the grandchildren’s forgotten names–
who once were through his loins,
now faded memories–
where once the sea breezes of June
and August swept down the hills
and through the house where
now
the shell of a man sits,
a seashell washed up on the shoreline.
Life has long gone out,
and the smell of the air is overpowering,
and I turn away
because it is the smell of death.
The fresh sea breezes
blow down hills
sweet with the wild rose.
Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry
